White Christians: Who are our friends?

I have been quiet.

So quiet.

I haven't sought to speak in the storm, because I am not rain, nor wind, nor shaking earth or crashing waves. I find my giftings in other places, much like the gentle breeze in 1 Kings that causes Elijah to emerge from the cave because he knows it is God. 

And so it is with this image that my spirit resonates, thinking of myself as a breeze that caresses each and every person and calls them to know their Belovedness--and to cast off all that holds back from this Knowing. This is the tender compassion the Lord has given to me--one that seeks to protect the space for the journey of healing in each and every one of us, for we have all experienced trauma and fragmentation in our spirits. 
 

*  *  *

Once I was in the psych ward and in the room next to me was a woman who could not speak but who would occasionally erupt in fits of terrified screaming. While the rest of us played cards, ate meals, and built community together, she was in a room in a chair. We only knew her presence by the high-pitched screams of panic that would come from the small room.

All I wanted to do was to let her know that she wasn't alone.

My own screams were just within. 

*  *  *

Sometimes I think about this nation as a big house and we're all in different rooms looking outside of a window at the yard ahead of us. 

Some people see tulips, and some see daffodils, and some see a shed, and still others see a fountain of running water.  Depending on what room you're in, the view is different, and each room obstructs some view of the yard.

What if in the attic is the one who has all the keys to the house. They don't have all the keys to the house because they should, but because they are hoarding all the keys from the other housemates. Not only that, but they've been hoarding all the keys for so long that they believe that the keys were actually all theirs to begin with. 

The attic-dwellers rush to their window and see a shed far in the distance. Because they hold all the keys, they know that what they see out their window is true. 

"There is a shed in the yard!" they cry. 

The second floor housemates rush to their windows (in their respective rooms of course), and one says, "Yes, I see a shed from my window, but I see tulips as well!" The other observes that they, too, see a shed in their window, and not tulips, but daffodils. 

The attic-dwellers interrupt the observations of the second floor housemates by once again declaring more emphatically, "There is a shed in the yard!" 

This pattern continues for a few more rounds until the second floor housemates open up their windows and lean out. They see that the reason the attic-dwellers cannot see the flowers is because the attic juts out from the house, blocking the view of the flowers below. They also see that although one room cannot see the tulips from their window, and the other cannot see the daffodils, that both flowers are a part of the same bed.

All the while the attic-dwellers continue to declare, "There is a shed in the yard!" What they do not understand, of course, is that they are only seeing part of the picture, and that their housemates on the second floor are seeing a different part of the same yard. 

It is in descending from the attic they are ascending into relationships that allow them to gain a more holistic perspective, for it turns out that the keys to the bigger picture were never in their hands all along.

The attic is the embodiment of white privilege, and the communication of what we see out of the attic window are our poor attempts at intercultural communication. 

White friends, especially my white Christian family, we can do better.
 
*  *  *

Today I found myself reflecting on John 15:13 "Greater love has no one than this, than [s]he who lays down [their] life for [their] friends." 

What is it to lay down one's life? Looking at the Greek word (through Blue Letter Bible), a few phrases stuck out to me: "to place in a passive or horizontal posture," "prostrate," "kneel down," "lay." These words feel like a submission that is rooted in a heart-posture of honor and acknowledgement. 

How beautiful. Like the washing of feet and declaring of dignity. 

Like the brushing of hair behind one's ear and a gentle coo from a babe's mouth. 

Like a communion feast with bread broken for all and a sweet wine that declares that this blood has been shed and so you are all in right relationship with the Creator. 

*  *  *

Lay down your life.

Lay down your life for your friends. 

How beautiful a picture. How beautiful a posture. 

In a race classification system in the United States, contextually it's not too far of a stretch to say that for white people this passage resonates with our privilege. It's not too far of a stretch that to say for us this passage is the laying down of our privilege in love of our friends. In fact, I would argue that it is, without a doubt, a large part of the spiritual work that we must do as white Christians as we relate to our siblings of color, and the world at large. 

Greater love has no white person than this, than they who lay down their white privilege for their friends. 

Greater love has no white person than this, than they who step from the attic and seek to understand the view of the yard through the eyes of their friends. 

Greater love is active listening, greater love is seeking to understand, greater love is hearing the truth that everyone else in the house knows that you're hoarding the keys but you. And greater love is responding to this not in defense, but a posture of acknowledgement and recognition that your space in the attic has obstructed you from seeing a bigger picture. 

Greater love is a giving, but greater love is also a receiving. Greater love is a challenging, but also a being challenges. Greater love is messy and full of paradoxes and contradictions. 

Greater love is complicated.

But who thought that living one's life in a posture of humble, kneeling submission would be?

*  *  *

"Greater love has no one than this, than [s]he who lays down [their] life for [their] friends." 

And who are our friends? 

*  *  *

White Christians: Who are our friends?


 

Luke 10:25-37  

On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

“What is written in the Law?” he replied. “How do you read it?”

He answered, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”

“You have answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.”

But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

In reply Jesus said: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. ³⁵ The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’

“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”

Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

"Live in the tension," she said.

I feel compelled to write something, and so I will. Though the story is much longer than what time allots at this moment, I sense that a snippet is needed to share right now at this moment. 

A moment where narratives are held in great anticipation and contradiction:

The Cleveland Indians might win the World Series.

The Standing Rock Sioux tribe (and many others) are gathered together to stop the pipeline being built across the nation.

The election is in one week. 

Anticipation. Unknown. Standstill. And yet so present.

How is it that I'm existing among so many contrasting things? What is this space of in-between where I find myself? Why now?

On Friday I fly out to Kansas for "Would Jesus Eat Frybread?," a conference for Native students navigating the intersection of faith and culture. I don't have words for the depth of what it is to have been invited to be present in such a sacred space of processing, healing, and community. And I know beyond knowing that I will come back on Monday changed. I am open to the process. 

As many of my peers belted "Go Tribe!" today, I found myself packing and preparing for the conference. On Saturday there is a time of cultural sharing. I haven't felt much anxiety about going to the conference, but when I read the email which said to bring a gift for the night of cultural sharing, I felt my throat closing slightly. What does it mean for me, a European American, to bring a cultural gift? What represents where I come from? More importantly than that, what kind of gift could I bring that represents where I come from while acknowledging the injustice of how where I come from came to be?

The truth is I never questioned anything regarding indigenous peoples growing up until I became dear friends with an indigenous person. Well, that's not entirely true--I remember being eight and hearing the story of Thanksgiving and stating that it seemed mean that "Native Americans welcomed us and then gave us gifts and then got killed and pushed off their land." The dissonance never quite settled in me, but I never had answers from teachings to fill my confusion. (Manifest Destiny was the goal after all, right?) When dissonance is too great, you just let things go to make harmony within yourself. 

And so I find myself in an entirely different space over 15 years later, packing to go to a conference for Natives who are seeking harmony in their stories of dissonance, too. The narratives are much different than mine contextually, and yet there is a common thread in that we are all seeking. And I find myself seeking with so many questions of the Church and intercultural trauma and healing. 

This weekend all that I am seeking is to show up and be fully present in each and every moment as it unravels in story. 

But in the midst of all of this reflection I am still unsure of what gift to bring. Nothing I can think of seems appropriate, and so I ask the one who invited me for advice. He shares much, but what I take away is this: "Bring something of great value." And all at once I know in my being what to offer, and it is something of great value.   

Encircled around the rearview mirror of my car is a lei. It was given to me by my friend (and former Mission Year teammate from Hawai'i) as I left O'ahu during my visit in June. The lei has been commercialized and caricatured, but it is a sign of friendship, honor, greeting, and celebration. In the case of this lei, it was a gift of goodbye as I boarded the plane for the long flight back to Ohio. During the plane ride the flowers slowly died, and when I got back I chose to hang the strand of dried flowers on my rearview mirror, not quite sure what to do with it, but it's symbolism being too rich to simply discard. 

It is relationship that causes us to care, and relationship that causes us to change. Listening to one another's stories opens us to viewing the world differently, and challenging where we came from, what we believe, and how we view things. In this case, the story of me beginning to understand myself as a colonizer through the eyes of the colonized has been a story of many tears, restless nights, and inability to move forward during a year in Philadelphia and beyond. Yet I am convinced that the way forward is continuing to listen, repent, and partnering as invited into the work of intercultural healing.  

I'm bringing a lei not because I'm Hawaiian, but because it was a person from Hawai'i who embodied the missing narrative that I sought to hear when I was eight and I said "I don't think this was fair." I'm bringing a lei to acknowledge that through this friendship I was invited into healing within myself as a colonizer, and that I am committed to continue the hard work of repentance and healing. I'm bringing a lei because the reasons I care so much for Natives on the mainland is because of the influence of Natives from another land. To me the two are intertwined. I'm bringing a lei because it symbolizes friendship and honor which was given to me, and now I seek to give to others, a commitment to continually sow what has been sown in me as I relate to and am in partnership with indigenous peoples. 

I share all of this to say that the Cleveland Indians might win the World Series tonight, and I'm bringing a lei as a gift to a conference in Kansas for Native students the weekend before the election between Hilary Clinton and Donald Trump. 

Anticipation. Unknown. Standstill. And yet so present.

I Will Know

"What is intentional community?" he asks, and I find myself at a loss of words.

Words fail to express the depths of the sacred. 

Intentional community is the act of bearing witness to the journeys of a small group of people who commit to practicing the "one anothers" alongside one another as the physical embodiment of the Church.

But I will always know intentional community first experienced as this, not in words, but in pictures:

Buying Calypsos in four different flavors, suitcases sporadically hitting sidewalk bumps on the way to the laundromat, the smell of the musty conflict mediation basement, plastic spoons scraping the last remnants of water ice out of cups during the evening hours, labeled tupperwares and dirty dish rags.

I will know intentional community as water dripping from the underground ceiling as we wait for public transit to arrive, lugging crockpots of black beans across the city, standing on crowded trolleys until 62nd and Elmwood.

I will know intentional community as the routine coffee dates and the dramatic fights, laughter loud and emotions high. I will know intentional community as sisters and secrets, and brothers and banter--game nights and nights out and time together. 

But I will also know intentional community as this:

Holding her together the night she fell apart in grief, our tears covering as a prayer for a journey we all knew was coming. I will know it in the washing of feet and the breaking of bread, communion til the early hours of the morning. I will know it in the hardship and the times when we wanted to give up--and they ways in which there was redemption in the seemingly lost and broken. I will know it how we acknowledged one another's healing in the process of the journey, through sweet letters and gifts and an honoring of story. I will know it in the way we embodied seeing and knowing as the intimacy that is the Church, the Beloved of Christ. 

I will know intentional community first experienced as them.


Let us break bread together on our knees
Let us break bread together on our knees
When we fall on our knees with our face to the rising sun
Oh Lord, have mercy on us.

When I Look Back

Sometimes I'm in Springfield watching my father's gentle hands gather vegetables from the garden, the breeze on my face from the Lake and the smell of rotting fish a reminder that I am home.

And sometimes I'm at Sawyerwood church singing "God Bless America" on Memorial Day, crock pots and Hallmark cards and protective, secure hugs--Grandma's laughter and the birthday bag and Father Abraham had many sons.
 
And sometimes I'm deep in the cornfields of Bowling Green, the horizon as flat and open as all of the possibilities ahead of me, a questioning and searching and seeking my spiritual truth. 

And sometimes I'm in Philadelphia where my Black church family taught me of justice and freedom and liberation and healing, where radical embrace sunk deep into my bones a healing I didn't know I needed and a healing I could never forget.

And sometimes I'm in Kapolei near the shores where the sun-soaked sand called my spirit to repentance, where the kalo was pounded on the papa ku‘i ‘ai into communion alongside coconut milk and we all partook of the feast as one Church. 

And sometimes I'm in the sun-scorched dirt of LA where shoots of resilient green in the midst of drought remind me that I am resilient green, too.

And sometimes I'm in Summit Lake, where the beggars and broken take communion alongside the rich and humbled and we call one another family.   

And sometimes I'm in the psychiatric hospital, and sometimes I'm the counselor. And sometimes I'm the Good Samaritan, and sometimes I'm begging for help and

Everywhere I go  
My heart keeps expanding and widening and falling deeper in love
Mystery and ocean depths and a never-ending contemplative horizon that leads me to marvel at--
How wide, 
how long, 
how deep, 
how magnificent 
is the love of Christ our Lord.

The Day I Tried to Protest at a Bar

"What are you protesting?" the man asked me while we were both painting the street in my neighborhood. I had just told him I was planning on protesting an event that was happening at a local bar that evening. 

In a flurry of feelings, I didn't answer his question well. To be honest, I hadn't quite figured it out myself. I just knew it was a luau that wasn't a luau and this wasn't okay.

And three hours later as I was in my room trying to sort through what to write on my sign, I still hadn't figured it out. I wanted to write "Native Hawaiian culture is not yours for pleasure and consumption" but I didn't think anyone in Akron, Ohio would understand what that meant. No one really thinks of Hawai'i as a land in Akron, just a paradise vacation destination. 

I was told from a couple of friends heavily involved and a part of the Hawaiian community in Hawai'i that to represent Hawai'i and Native Hawaiian people well I should protest with a spirit of aloha. I didn't quite understand what that meant but I kinda read it as "Amber chillax it's all gonna be cool just speak your heart and speak the truth and don't protest out of a spirit of violence."

I'm sitting, staring at my blank sign, wondering if I should talk about how Hawai'i was illegally overthrown and then eventually annexed by William McKinley who is buried a half hour from Akron, or if I should point out that none of the five luau foods are being served at their event.

Neither one feels like a good route but this is the third "luau" event I've seen at three different bars/pubs in Akron this summer and on top of the varying "Hawaii" floral sprays and "paradise fabric prints" found in any store I just cannot be silent anymore.

And so I think of Jesus, and how he speaks to the people he loves. 

He calls them by name: "Mary" "Jerusalem" "Peter"

And so I start off my sign by calling by name my city that I love--"Akron"

I don't know where to go from here because there is so much I want to say to Akron and beyond. And I begin weeping because I'm thinking of Jesus standing over Jerusalem, his heart breaking for the city and watching it be it's own destruction because it is too blind to see. And I feel connected to Jesus in that moment, somehow, in someway that I can't describe but is real.

And I ask myself, "What is it that gently needs to be said?"

And I paint:

And although the protest/education station didn't work out (due to rain and me recognizing that moving my solo protest to inside wasn't going to be the best idea) it doesn't change the fact that Hawaiians are important, and so are their stories and culture. 

And

And sometimes, love,
You must let a dream die
To compost into the fertile soil
In which another
may 
grow

Monday

We are here
Past the door frame with layers of grimy fingers
Across the sticky floor of the small kitchen 
Amid the shouts and hustle and bustle
And plates thrown about on the rickety table 
The gathering of children like the gathering of chicks
Around and around the plates are filled
And shouts are the laughter of tomorrow
Another day has gone
And we brush the work off our shoulders
With smiles and the passing of plates
And in the midst of chaos
A collective breath signals the day's end with a gentle
Take and eat.

 

 

Part 1

Grief--
You were the first to arrive at the scene
To perform emergency care for my bleeding heart
Wrapping it tightly with gauze to stop the grieving
But the feeling stopped, too.

Numb
So numb
Beneath the restricting gauze--
The survival kit in the midst of loss
My God
I have been half alive for so long I have forgotten what it is 
To feel.

Photo Credit: Sara Fouts

Sometimes I feel like dance is a bit like God

Photo Credit: Sara Fouts

Sometimes I feel like dance
Is a bit like God like
How I continually try to run and run
From that which beckons me to the
Sweetest surrender of expression
And 'Come away with me, Beloved'
To the naked movement of my soul
Flourishing and free and safe as it was meant to be
As it could be
(As it will be
Someday when the world is renewed
And we find ourselves dancing together
Raw and intimate and beautiful
The sweet laughter of communion)
Sometimes I feel like dance
Is a bit like God like
How I continually try to run and run
From S[He] who beckons me to the
Sweetest surrender of expression

Photo Credit: Sara Fouts

The Creative's Submission

I relate to God most as Creator. I don’t know why this is, only that I, too, like to create—to make beauty, meaning, and form from what is around me. I like to synthesize ideas, objects, and words into newness, breathing life into the old in fresh and innovative ways. I see these characteristics in God, a God who creates something out of nothing, the earth, all of creation. I see these characteristics in a God who synthesizes our lives with one another, creating story and form. I see these characteristics in a God who crafts circumstances where Kingdom moments penetrate the dullness of the day to day on earth—where a new order (an order founded on covenantal love) can be seen as the law of the land.

Ever since I began listening to the voice of the Spirit and yoking my dreams in submission to what I sense is the path of obedience, I’ve experienced an intuition of “what is to come.” I can recall concrete times where I experienced a knowing in the unknowing, and defying all logic pursued a path that appeared entirely left field. It is due to this intuitive drive that I’ve arrived where I am at today—working for a non-profit with an alignment towards knowing the Kingdom of God on earth by creating space for unlikely partnerships, living in a community house where we practice covenantal love and the “one anothers,” and offering my skillsets and time towards the advancement of movements of justice and shalom nationwide. I still remember the day where I decided I would finish my degree but no longer pursue Film Production, the letting go of that decaying dream feeling like the ultimate loss of control. But through the process, God has shown me that though I may be led to walk off cliffs (and onto a tight string held across the canyon), I am led just the same. I can trust God’s leadership—the voice of the Spirit—in my life. God has proven Godself to be consistent, and I have appreciated that.

This is why the last year of my life has been incredibly disorienting on my spiritual journey. As I thought of the future, intuition led me to doors and dreams that were bold and beautiful and I was convinced that I was being led to open them. But imagine my confusion when upon approaching these doors, I found them closed with no handle or key. I stayed in a state of denial for months, staring at the closed doors, convinced that something must have been communicated wrong. I was positive that I was Spirit-led here. But when I finally was able to tell myself the truth “That door is actually closed,” I turned to God in anger. I felt that God had betrayed our intimate trust by leading me to a closed door. I felt like I couldn’t turn to God for consistency in leadership. I began to ignore God completely because I felt so hurt.

It is hard to lead a life when you’re in an argument with the one you love, and my spirit has felt so very numb in this last year because of it. If I could not trust God to lead me, the One who is covenantal, ever-faithful, and intimately present, whom could I trust? Humans cannot compare—God is the only one I want. My thirst is deep for that intimate communion. Apart from this communion I am nothing, (and I say this not in a codependent way, although it may sound as such.) My days were spent in a haze, kneading daily bread with my eyes empty and glazed over just trying to make it by. Soon I realized that I needed to take action and work through this and stop being a stubborn ox, or my soul would soon be in decay from bitterness.

And so I went to Hawai’i. Like Jacob, God and I would wrestle this out. I was through with living in the empty haze, and through with the hurt I felt at God. And so in Hawai’i while I was staying at the monastery I opened up all the hurts turned into bitterness that I had been holding onto for a year. And I walked the stations of the cross path at the monastery in the mountains and wept and wailed for hours on end. And I yelled at God and said I was angry and sad, and that God was mean. And I allowed myself to embody the deep hurt that had no resolution but to be let go. And I begged for answers, for direction, for guidance. And when I was finally done crying there was still no resolution, no blessing from God like Jacob received, but just my whimpering spirit that asked God to never lead me to love closed doors again. And that was the end of it. The mountains stood witness to the moment, and I allowed the land around me to speak bittersweet healing into my spirit. 

That night was the lowest of lows, the night where I realized that even as I had let go of the bitterness in order to reconcile with God, that God had given no answers, no direction, and I still felt like I was floundering under lack of confirmation of direction. I was at the end. But it’s funny to me, how the end is sometimes the beginning. This is another mystical paradox that I seem to experience, over and over again. The next day I awoke and randomly attended a Young Adult Catholic Retreat where I received surprising confirmation upon confirmation, and open doors and affirming words. And as the next nine days passed by the confirmations only continued from different communities of people in Hawai’i, all who love Jesus but whom don’t know each other. There were confirmations from strangers at Starbucks, from strangers in restaurants, from the strangest of places and always catching me off guard. Without a doubt I knew that the Spirit was speaking through the Church and I laughed with the bone-deep laughter of Sarah when God told her she would bear a child at her old age. It was a laughter of acceptance, a laughter of peace. A laughter that knew that I was being Spirit-led all along, I was just looking at the wrong door.

I am in my room in Akron, spontaneously re-arranging my furniture to empty floor space so I can make a day-bed. I am in a creative fervor, not entirely conscious in the moment and yet hyper aware of all that is around me. I’m grabbing blankets, pillows, visualizing what has yet to be seen. This is the intuition of creativity, the synthesizing of things coming together. I roll the blanket up, creating a makeshift pillow, and toss my $6 fish throw pillow on top. Looking to my right, I spy my childhood quilt blanket, and sense that it will contrast well with the arrows of the comforter so I toss it on top. I straighten out the edges and know that the project is finished. Taking a step back, I marvel at the creation. The pieces were scattered throughout my room, and on their own make sense but together they make something beautiful. 

It strikes me as funny, really. I’ve been discontent with my room for months, knowing that it needed “something” but not knowing what that “something” was. I thought around it for months, but nothing was rising to the surface. Something I’ve learned is that you can’t force creativity. Whenever things fall into place, things fall into place. I feel myself smiling, looking at the day-bed. No longer is it about the day-bed, but it’s about closed doors and bitterness and impatience and the last year of my spiritual life. You can’t force doors to open. If they will open, they will open.

The script is not mine to write, the canvas not mine to paint, and the dance not mine to choreograph: “Thy will be done.” And as much as I’d stubbornly like to think I know the best story to tell, I am reminded once again that the reality is that God is the Master Storyteller who has been faithful in leading me all along (and doing it WAY longer than I have), synthesizing the different-patterned pieces together as it best makes sense—not as it’s most convenient to my impatient, “now”-oriented spirit.  

I relate to God most as Creator. I don’t know why this is, only that I, too, like to create—to make beauty, meaning, and form from what is around me.

May Your story be told. 

5.5.16

Let the tension go, like waves emanating from you. You are a speck of dust in a vast universe. 

Give little kisses to those around you. Hold them with the delicacy of the stars for tomorrow is never promised and today may be full of trauma. 

We gasp today like people just above water. But still we swim. But still we swim. 

This is the mystery of resilience, the groanings of the oppressed.

Solidarity

It has been a rough week in the neighborhood. People I love are going through some real stuff, and I’m feeling the weight of the onslaught of trauma. As a person inclined to be a “helper,” it’s difficult for me to sit back and watch things unfold without directly involving myself, and as a person with intuitive empathy, it’s difficult to not absorb other’s experiences directly into my own person.

Lately I’ve been questioning why I’ve chosen to live in an environment that can be high chaos, unpredictable, and overall intense. I’m questioning this not because I don’t see the value in living where I do, but because I don’t see how my presence changes anything or will change anything even if I stay here for decades. There will still be chaos, there will still be unpredictability, and things will still be intense in my community with or without me living there.

It sounds a bit like a “white-savior complex,” but maybe it’s more appropriate to call it a “helper-savior complex.” Although I am white, I think what I’m walking through in this has more to do with my “helper” identity, rather than the reality that I’m white (although I’m sure there’s an intersection in those two factors).

Why would one choose to immerse themselves in pain? Why would one choose to be in pain just to be in pain when one sees that helping will never alleviate it?

Deep down, I guess I think that my presence somehow will stop pain, as if I’m the Messiah. Logically I know I’m not, but my heart is so inclined to step on this helper-savior pedestal.

The Lord is still doing a work in my heart, humbling my person to its rightful place as “not-Messiah” and freeing me up to rest in the tension rather than trying to change the tension. But it is a journey. And it’s a spiritual journey I see myself being on for the rest of my life, which is simultaneously overwhelming and encouraging.

When I look at Jesus, I see One who willingly chose to enter the world—a world that in comparison to where He came was full of trauma. In this I feel a confirmation in my choice to enter living life alongside the marginalized (the powerful unseen) in my context by living in Summit Lake. Some days I don’t know why I’m living in my community, but some days I realize that there’s something in doing so that is deep beyond what I have words for quite yet.

When Jesus entered the pain of the people, I notice that many times He was simply there. His presence was enough. His listening and standing witness to the pain was enough. As I continue to live life alongside my neighbors, live life alongside movements towards justice and just-ness, I ache to get to a place where I can rest in my presence being enough, even as the pain may/will continue.

The Messiness of Healing

I wasn't prepared.

I found myself all at once in a sanctuary full of Christians singing "Let it Rise" and I didn't know what to do with myself. It's not that I haven't been among Christians in months, I have, but I have struggled in entering the structured worship service setting for a long time now. What I thought was going to be a round table meeting turned out to be nothing of the like, and I found myself saying "I wasn't prepared."

I felt my anxiety mounting in the space, and I wanted to run. I wanted to run from whatever it was that was causing distress inside of me. The people gathered were a majority white, smiling crowd--a crowd I also have been avoiding for months now. The two threads--a majority white, smiling crowd and a structured worship service were crossing in an anxiety inducing panic. And to top it all off, we were singing "Let it Rise" which I associate with my childhood and listening to its notes lull me to sleep on the radio.

There are a few things I've learned about anxiety. One is that you don't really see it coming. Another is that it's usually linked to something deeper. A third is that the way towards peace is naming your truth, letting go, and envisioning a new reality. I wasn't prepared to do any of these things. 

But I was prepared to run. I looked over at my friend, panicked. "I didn't know what I was coming to." She looked at me, and spoke wisdom. "I want to challenge you to sit in the discomfort. It's easier for you to run to other cultures--like when we went to the Mon community festival earlier today--then to remain in the complexities and paradoxes of your own." Her words hit me as once as Truth, and I knew that whatever this anxiety was that I had to wade it out once and for all. 

And so the band began "Let it Rise" and all at once all I felt rising within me was a torrential downpour of tears. Immediately I experienced resistance--I did not want to cry in this space. I didn't want to deal with it. The only place I've felt comfortable crying for months has been by myself, because I'm the only one who gets what I'm going through. This is my perception, at least.

But here I was, clearly about to have a breakthrough emotive experience in front of all of these strangers. I had two choices--let it out, or stuff my emotions. I tried stuffing my emotions for about three seconds until it became clear that this wasn't going to happen in this space. I was going to have to submit and allow healing to run it's course. 

And so I did. Eyes closed, the first tears spilled over, and then more, and then more. "Let the glory of the Lord rise among us." Oh Lord. Here it was. More tears, and more tears, and the band continued. "Ohhhhh let it rise." I began taking deep breaths, opening myself up to the music that I associated with childhood.

Before I opened myself up to the pain of the world. Before Jesus ruined my life in the best of ways. Before I was uncomfortable. 

And there was something in this, something in the leaning into that which I associated with the comfort of childhood, that all at once I named as healing. The notes filled my ears and entered my heart, and from my heart were pulsed into all parts of my body. And I opened myself up to the music that once brought comfort and allowed it to sink into my bones. I allowed myself to name that God was in this song, too. 

I allowed myself to name that God was in this song, too, just as God was in the cracks and crevices in the sidewalk in front of my house in Summit Lake. I allowed myself to name that God was in this song, too, just as God was in the black church who loved me lavishly on the streets of Philadelphia. I allowed myself to name that God was in this song, too, just as God was in the psych ward and the flatlands of Bowling Green, and the pigeons of the city, and the land that sifts between my hands. 

God was in this song, too--a song I associated with my childhood and whiteness. And in somehow naming that God was in this song, too, I was naming that God was in my childhood experience of faith, a faith culture I have dismissed as I've dove full-fledged into movements of justice and reconciliation.

But in the midst of all of this, and in the midst of my deep disappointment in the Church and how the Church perpetuates injustice in varying contexts, I find that deep down I have a love for the Church that I cannot shake. And I keep trying to shake it, but as much as I try to hide or run away or not care, I find that I care with a depth that is too much and so therefore it is easier to resign myself to the fact that things will never change rather than think about how to strategically be a part of the change. 

And maybe this is just a part of the healing process. Maybe one day I'll be able to enter back in. But for now I'm in a deep season of lament. Lament on how the Church has not recognized the image of God in others and has perpetuated injustice. Lament on the Church's apathy towards creating more just societies and social structures. Lament that the pain of the world is ignored, and instead covered with a Band-aid "Jesus is Risen!" as if three words (when not fully understood) can wipe away a lifetime of ache. Lament.

But as I sat and listened to the church planters cast a vision, I felt myself have a little spark of hope.

I dunno. Maybe all healing is is just the appearance of a little bit of hope. Or maybe healing is the recognition of beauty and the letting go of bitterness. I dunno, maybe healing is more than both of these. 

All I know is that thirty minutes after arriving back at my home, I found myself in my room pulling out my guitar for the first time in over a year. And my fingers felt the strings that they haven't caressed in months. And my mouth fumbled over the dusty words that my heart hasn't been able to speak. And tears streamed from my eyes as art was the conduit of healing. 

And for the first time in a year, I sang.
And for the first time in a year, I sang. 
And for the first time in a year--I sang.

"Let these bones that You have broken rejoice.
Let these bones that You have broken rejoice.
For You are Good, and Your love is everlasting
In the day to day passing You reign."

When the Grass is Greener on the Other Side

In October of 2016 I sat down to vision cast the next year of my life. I was a few months removed from Mission Year, was starting a new job, living in a new city, and living in an intentional community. The exercise I was using asked you to think of where you'd like to be in 3 months, one year, three years, and your lifetime. As I brainstormed options for each, I found myself listing radical changes when I thought of changes for the next three months. I wanted to completely switch my role at work, dump this and change that--the goals for three months were drastic and reflected my discontent heart in the middle of many transitions.

As I wrote goals to be completed by 2017, I found myself pausing. Intuitively, I knew that there was only one goal I wanted to work towards this year--settling in Akron and being fully present there. Tears streamed down my face, and I knew that this would be the spiritual work of the next year. What does it mean to practice contentment when your heart longs for "elsewhere?"

I recently read a Japanese folk tale called "The Stonecutter." The story speaks of a lowly stonecutter who wishes he was a wealthy merchant so he is transformed into a wealthy merchant. Soon he becomes discontent as a wealthy merchant so he wishes to be something he perceives as more powerful--a prince. Soon he finds himself as discontent and wishing to be something more powerful--the sun. At the end of the folk tale he finds himself as a rock, that which he has perceived as the most powerful. But he soon discovers that a stonecutter has more power than a rock, and finds himself once more where he began.
 
The Lord has been teaching me a lot in the last eight months, and in many ways I've been the Stonecutter--envious, possessive, and discontent. I've been sitting in front of the plot of land I've been gifted and I've been saying to the Gifter "This isn't the land I wanted." I've been staring longingly at another plot of land across the way, convinced that the land across the way will produce "better" fruit. My spirit has been restless and grasping for that which I do not have.

But as the months have passed a slow shift has begun to take place as my spirit has shifted from denial, to anger, to bargaining, and now acceptance. I find myself sitting in front of my plot of Gifted land, my spirit exhausted and weary and raw, but accepting of my reality.

The grass is never greener on the other side, and grief is not a process to be entered lightly. When we chose to enter the pain, transformation is inevitable. But it is always Good.

Intuition tells me that joy will be found in recognizing the gift of the plot in front of me. Intuition tells me that peace will be found in allowing my hands to sink deep within the land and learning its temperature, form, and function. Intuition tells me to lean into the pain of grief and allow my hands to sink deep into earth, for in choosing to say "yes" to one, I say "no" to many, and this is a natural process.

And so I continue to lean into learning how to practice contentment in my here and now in Akron, Ohio. I give myself permission to allow my raw, tear-stained body to rock back and forth in front of the plot of land I've been gifted, hands kneading deeper and deeper into the earth with the practice of faithfulness and contentment.

Through this labor of obedience, my tears will water the land.

And blossoms will rise. 

The Turning Point

A bitter heart is a grieving heart, and my heart has been in the depths of grieving. 

And I find myself now looking back, seeing how difficult it has been for others to sit with my bitter heart for months on end.

And now I find my spirit softening, opening up once more to fall in love again, to move and breathe and allow myself to connect with all that is around me.

I look into her eyes, hesitant to speak what I need to say. "I am so sorry." Tears fall down my face. "I see know how difficult it has been to companion me these last seven months, and I just want to thank you for sticking it out with me."

Tears fill her eyes as I continue on. "I don't really know what's been going on, but I just want you to know that I really do like it here, and I'm thankful. But it has been so, so hard." My head is bowed and I feel vulnerable in my truth.

When I look up all I see is grace. "It has been hard," she says with tear-filled eyes. "But I could see that you would make it through. And I can see that you are making it through."

And we cry and we cry and we cry and in that there's an unspoken acknowledgement that this is both the beauty and the pain of our lives--that in the mountains and in the valleys we show up fully alongside one another.

Because there Love is.

Because there God is. 

Tango

I look up and you're gesturing to me from the front of the dance hall, standing next to all of the rest of the single men. I have coyly covered my blue wristband denoting my single status at this familial style Valentine's Day dance, but it didn't slip your eye. You gesture with a tilt of your head and I stare into your eyes with an inquisitive gaze and a bashful laugh. This is a time for the singles to dance together, and it is clear that I am being invited to the dance floor. I slyly stare at you from the table and take a steady breath, unsure if I want to step into the mystery ahead of me. 

You see, Man, I've grown a lot in the past few years. I've learned that my Womanness is a gift, and that my Womanness is to be treated with honor, dignity, and respect. And I've experienced so many times where you, Man, have crossed those lines and chiseled me down to an object for your pleasure and power rather than an autonomous being with giftings and dreams and passions. So, Man, I am skeptical to dance with you, because I do not believe you to be capable to hold my giftings and Beauty with the Strength that is needed (to use gender socialized terms). 

But I'm also learning, Man, that I don't need your approval, time, or doting to know that I am worthy of honor, dignity, and respect. I'm learning, Man, that my giftings, dreams, and passions need to be known by me, not bestowed on me from you. I'm learning, Man, that my Womanness can exist apart from you, in comparison to all that I've been taught by fairy tales, romance novels, and society at large. I'm learning, Man, that I idolized you and gave you too much of a stake in my heart. 

And so as I stare at you, all this is running through my mind. You can't see any of it, only the sly smile on my face as I look at you from over my hand resting on my chin. You can't see my soul shivering, knowing that if I choose to dance with you that it is symbolic to me of a larger soul change. But I feel that it's time, and so I stand, allowing my Womanness to be fully present in the space. I am at peace with myself as I walk towards the front of the dance hall, burgundy lace dress and leather boots, smiling and shaking my head at you. 

Standing in front of you I have a minor laughing fit because there are only two couples on the floor and one of them are you and I. But I pull myself together in time to first hear your name and then to introduce myself as we shake hands. 

As the music begins I throw my arms around your tall neck and you link yours gently around my waist, and I allow myself to be in the dance. 

We talk about the song (it's not in English and I don't know it), and you share about more events that this community puts on. You invite me to Chinese New Year and other events, and I share a bit about what brought me there that night. It's nice to be physically close to another human. It's nice to small talk into your ear and to accidentally graze cheeks, and to allow myself to trust you enough to hold me. My Womanness is still present, confident, sure. 

As the song progresses, I find myself surprised at how this is going. There's mutual respect, dignity, and honor here, even as there is attraction. I find myself thankful for this moment. The song ends and I look into your eyes, take your hands in mine, squeeze them and gift a surprised and sincere "Thank you." 

You ask if you can buy me a drink, and I laugh but decline. I see your gesture as an initiation, and I don't want to lead you on. You inquire once again, but again I decline, more firmly this time (even as my eyes are kind) and you ask, "You don't drink?" and I say "No, I don't." And I see in your eyes that you respect that, and you respect my Womanness and my "no" (even as I think you wanted to hear a "yes.") 

Healing happens in relationship, and all at once I felt a space of healing within me. My "no" being respected, validated, cherished. Myself and my Womanness being respected, validated, cherished by Man and not chiseled down to an object for pleasure and power. 

I walk back to my seat, smiling and shaking my head, feeling proven so incredibly wrong about my assumptions on how you would treat me.

Sweet man, thank you for that Valentine's Day dance.

Until next time.

-A